The Faded Paradox
The fog that rolled off the coast of Harrowgate did not merely obscure the world; it unmade it. It was a thick, gray wool that smelled of salt and iron, swallowing the cobblestones and the gas lamps until the city became a series of floating islands in a white void. I walked through it with the heavy, deliberate steps of a man who has stopped expecting the ground to hold him for long. My name...
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